The Other Side of the Coin
by quantumlevitation
Summary: Rosalind wants out of Columbia, away from Comstock's zealotry. She flees into Robert's world, rather than vice versa.
1. Chapter 1

They had arranged for the transfer to occur at six in the evening, and it was only five-thirty, and the wait was going to kill him, he was quite sure.

He looked around. The lab was as tidy as he could make it without disrupting anything important. Water was on to boil for tea, and he had brought in some pastries that he hoped that she would like. He had bought a bed from a neighbor down the road, and she'd thrown in a set of clean sheets, so those were ready.

He had put the story around that his sister was coming to visit. He hoped, though he did not know, that the woman would look at least something like him, so that the story would be plausible.

The chime of the clock broke him out of his reverie. In the middle of the main lab room the air began to shimmer, and the universe was rent asunder.

Through a grey haze, he saw a woman. She was-he had never imagined himself female, but when he saw her, he knew who she was, and he felt the knowing down to the bottoms of his feet.

She heaved a suitcase through the tear. It took on solid form and bounced off of the floor of the lab. Then she looked at him with a firm resolve in her eyes, and took a clean step through the tear. Her boot gained form first, then her skirts, and then she was through all of the way.

She turned to the tear and counted under her breath. At ten the tear winked out of existence, and she turned to him, extending a hand.

"My name is Rosalind Lutece."

"And my name is Robert."

Their hands touched, her small one in his large, and as soon as their skin came into contact she blanched and passed out, blood trickling from her nose.


	2. Chapter 2

_July nineteenth: after a dull series of trials to confirm that the atom could be successfully entangled (the true core of science is tedium, he thought) on the two hundred and fifty-sixth trial, the Lutece Field began turning on and off without his intervention. He was almost finished for the day, so he blearily wrote it up in his notes and lay down on the cot that he kept in the corner of the lab for such evenings _

_July twentieth: It was happening again. Hating himself for his slowness, he noticed a pattern to it. The precipitous drop of his stomach when he realized that it was Morse Code – his notes were barely readable. Transcribing the dots and dashes. Then, the scrawl indicating that it was saying, of all the things that it could possibly have said: hello. _

_He did not know how long he had watched it, shaking – at least twenty cycles – but at last it fell silent. He had been assuming that it was a natural phenomenon, interference from another power source, but the presence of another human being? He reached out with trembling hands and through his excitement manipulated the levers and valves to respond. _

_Five cycles. This time the silence was longer. He wondered if his fatigue had gotten the better of him, or if he had, as his mother always predicted, been driven mad by his research. _

_Then it started up again, dreadfully slow: (my name is lutece) _

_He signaled back: (that is my name) _

_A pause. Then (Rosalind Lutece) _

_He could not signal fast enough. (Robert Lutece) _

_Without preamble, the power went out in the building, and he was in the dark. It had happened before, as he had done the wiring piecemeal over the course of the years and the building infrastructure was never intended for the kind of power that the machine demanded. _

_He fumbled for the candle that he kept for these occasions and went to investigate the fuse box. As he walked down the hallway, the possibilities of who the woman on the other side of the transmission might be made his head spin, and he laughed out loud as he changed out the whole bank of fuses that had blown. He powered up the machine, and sat down to try again._


	3. Chapter 3

After he had recovered from his shock, he picked her up from the floor of the lab and ran to the house with her. Without much thought, he settled her in his own bed, and started ransacking the house to find clean towels and rags that would serve to contain the blood from her nose. He rolled a towel in a handkerchief and tied it around, and that seemed to serve as well as anything.

He took a wet towel and wiped at her face to soak off the blood that had already dried. Through the panic that he was exerting himself to contain, a thought surfaced: she is beautiful. As he wiped gently at a stubborn spot, his finger caressed the curve of her cheekbone, and this made her cry out and move, trying to roll away from him. Blood gushed and soaked through the first towel, and he replaced it, cursing himself for his stupidity.

He went and found a pair of heavy leather gloves that he wore in winter. He tried an experimental finger down her arm and was relieved to see that she did not respond.

The blood had slowed now, and she seemed to be dozing. He resolved to go as quickly as he could out to the lab and retrieve the valise that she had tossed through

With one final glance at her, he opened the door and ran at top speed to the small outbuilding that housed his lab. He had left the door open, so it was the work of a moment to step inside and find the suitcase to carry it in the house.

He set it on the table and made to open it, then was seized by a sudden qualm of conscience. He walked over to the bed, stroked her arm, and spoke to her in a low voice.

"Rosalind, I'm sorry to have to do this, but I'm going to go through your suitcase to see if I can find something, anything about what's going on here. I know I'd hate if someone did this to me – and if you're like me, you'll hate that I did this too – but I have to take the chance."

He took a deep breath, and opened the latches. The first layer was neatly folded clothing, basic and well-made. As he lifted it out, he was shocked to see that each piece was a feminine counterpart of a piece of clothing that he owned, down to the color of the stitching, though the maker's mark differed. He reddened when he came to the undergarments, but soldiered on, only touching them long enough to move them out of the way.

A few more pieces of clothing set aside revealed what he had been searching for - notebooks, bundles of sketches, technical drawings, a few choice texts. He paged through each, but could not find any reference to an illness caused by inter-dimensional travel or any remedy for it. He racked his brain to try to think of any mention that she had made in their conversations prior to her journey of difficulties that she could anticipate, but he could remember none.

He set all of her things aside in a cabinet, so that there was no chance that they would get ruined or lost, and glanced over to her. She was murmuring, and he went closer to try to hear, but he could only make out a few scattered words.

The sun was going down by this point, so he lit a lamp, cut some bread and cheese and put the kettle on for tea. He realized that he had missed dinner, and it was well past suppertime, and he was ravenous. As he moved around the kitchen, he hummed, nothing in particular, but it had been a habit of his mother's, and somehow it had become a habit of his. In the darkness of the other room, a smile played across the woman's lips, and the blood slowed and stopped, if only for a moment.


	4. Chapter 4

_Returning to the machine, he reaches out for the lever, but does not pull it. The questions that had been hammering at his brain have been replaced by cacophony. A sip of cold tea clears his head a bit, and he pulls over a sheet of paper._

_A few minutes and a few notes later, he starts again._

(what is the date)

(thursday, july 20, 1893. it is ten oh six am.)

(same.)

(where are you)

(columbia)

(what state)

(we are a city unto ourselves, but we are above Chicago at present.)

_He blinks._ (do you mean to the north, or s wife or lab assistant), _he taps._

_No response, then:_ (there is no robert here).

_He realizes._ (are you a scientist), he responds.

(I am rosalind lutece). _Whatever her other accomplishments, she may be the first to imbue Morse Code with such sarcasm, he thinks._

(you live in columbia)

(yes. columbia, michigan), he answers.

(what do you do)

(i teach at a small college).

(have you been to the Columbian exposition)

(last month. it was a marvel)

(we are above Chicago. the city was launched for the fair. we are selling tickets and gathering investors, as well as residents.)

(there is no flying city here.)

(you have not achieved the same as I have. curious.)

_Robert is not sure how to take this last comment. To be sure, it stings his pride, and excuses are the first thing to hand when he attempts to respond._

(do not despair. my advances have come with the money of a religious maniac by the name of Comstock. this is his city.)

(I am sorry Robert I must go. I must give tours. I will be back tonight at nine.)

_The atom falls silent, if such a thing can be said. He powers down the machine and sits shaking, then starts writing furiously, trying to capture it all before it escapes his memory._


	5. Chapter 5

He opens his eyes, hears breathing – realizes that he has slept in a kitchen chair next to his bed, where she is. His neck is stiff from the position he settled into. Startles when he realizes that it is a woman, sleeping in his bed, then remembers who she is.

She is pale, but somehow looks better. He does not want to wake her, but goes into the kitchen to prepare some tea, and puts on a record, as is his habit.

The kettle on, he walks over to get a slice of bread, and hits his shin on the edge of the stove where he has hit it so many times before. Oddly, though, it doesn't hurt, which he chalks up to his fatigue. He will have to start sleeping in the bed that he had bought for her, though it will be cramped with his tall frame.

He realizes that she has cried out. It's the first he's heard her voice since she went unconscious. He runs into the room, where she is sitting up, clutching her leg, eyes filmy with sleep and whatever has been keeping her unconscious.

A good-sized bruise has formed on her shin, about mid-way up. He forgets to be ashamed of seeing so much of her, and touches it experimentally, murmuring to her that it's all right, that he'd get some cool water for her.

When he goes to fetch a towel it hits him like a wave of nausea. He staggers back to the table, sits down, pulls up his trouser leg. Nothing, no bruises, just freckles.

He must try it out. Not thinking, he strides over and holds his hand in the column of steam that is erupting from the kettle. No pain, just the condensation. He hears her voice again from the bedroom, and runs in to find her clutching her hand.

"What the hell are you doing, you goddamn fool?" Realizes what she's said. Realizes what is happening. The blood comes then, flowing and hot, and he holds her until it stops. He is close enough to feel her heart beating, knows that his is pounding with the discovery.

"I'm sorry, Rosalind. I'm sorry. I had to…"

She smiles. "No, I'd have done the same, don't worry. Another compress for the hand, though, if you would."

He refreshes the first, gets another. He is not sure if he's imagining it, but the coolness is on his skin as well. He gets a notebook and starts writing.

"Why don't you use a voxophone?"

"A what?"

"A voxophone. They record your voice. Much faster, I've gone entirely over to the things."

Robert shakes his head. "No such thing."

"Hmph. I suppose you're going to tell me next that you don't have any servants. You've been running after everything yourself."

"One of the women down the way comes by once a week and cleans. But no, I don't know how I'd afford servants on my salary."

"Well, that's going to have to change, you know. I don't know how we can get science done if we're going to be looking after ourselves."

Robert blushes. "I thought you'd…I had assumed…"

He has never seen anything in his life like the look she gives him. It is a blend of imperiousness, pity, contempt, and a hectoring frustration. "I. Do. Not. Keep. House."

He finds it in himself to respond, tries to salvage a modicum of pride. "I'll be happy to get servants. When we can afford them."

She scoffs. "I'd best get inventing, then."


	6. Chapter 6

A/N - Thanks to everyone for your reviews and thoughts - I've changed the method I'll use for the Morse Code dialogue to parentheses, I hope that will make it clearer. I'll also put a note at the beginning of each chapter in which it appears.

I didn't want to render the rather terse dialogue that would be actually occurring in Morse Code with the same punctuation as that of speech, but perhaps the option I chose (and the rendering on ) wasn't working for people.

* * *

><p><em>He opens his eyes to the first rays of sunset and realizes that he had fallen asleep over his notes, and that he is stiff, and hungry, and has no idea what time it is. A moment of fear when he looks at the clock, stilled when he realizes that he still has an hour until she will return.<em>

_He stands and stretches, tries to limber up his shoulders where they were hunched over the low table. A cabinet on the other side of the small lab yields a commemorative picture collection of the Columbian Exposition that he had bought on his way home. He pages through, looking to make certain that a flying city had not escaped his notice, but the pictures show no such thing. _

_He set the book down, looked around at his lab. Her comment about his achievements floated into his consciousness, rankled him. His parents supported his desire to live abroad, but they did not have the resources to provide any financial support, and he had counted himself lucky to land this job with few local references. He had published a few small articles that were well received, but his college was by no means wealthy, and he still cherished a dream of research elsewhere with better prestige and deeper pockets. He was particularly proud of his Lutece field generator, which he had built with scavenged parts and his own earnings._

_He cannot imagine how much it must have cost to build, much less float, an entire city. The thought makes him a little dizzy and he remembers that he has not eaten._

_The kitchen yields a plate that the farmer's wife had brought over for him when he was asleep, biscuits and thick gravy and some fresh raspberries. He had not thought of his physical needs when he first rented the house, thinking that he would just eat at the school, but he had not reckoned for weekends and the long summer. He sheepishly had shown up on his neighbor's front porch asking for food one Sunday afternoon, and, for a small additional payment, she brings over a plate whenever she cooks. _

_He sits down and eats gratefully, thankful that she remembered and also that she did not wake him when she came in. _

_By the time he is done eating, the clock has almost struck nine. He turns on a light in the lab and starts the process of powering up the machine, hoping that there will be no power failures or broken parts this evening. He has not wanted anything in his whole life so much as to talk to this woman, this other self from another world, and he is trembling as if cold, though the weather is stifling and humid._

_He has realized that he can disrupt the electrical current at one of the junctions, which is easier than shutting the machine on and off, to produce the dots and dashes that form their speech. which will speed things up. The things he wants to say to her can barely be conveyed through this medium, but for the time being it is all they have. _

(are you there), _comes the message._

(yes), _he responds._

(the tours today went badly. these men are less interested in prophecy than profit.)

(prophecy?)

_A pause. _(using the lutece device i can open windows into other possibilities. i call them tears. he thinks they are the future, despite my warnings.)

(you can open…) _Robert is sweating, his mind enveloping the thought and absorbing it._

(yes. it takes vast amounts of power to open the spaces between atoms, but it is possible. he takes what he sees in the tears and spins prophecy from it, and in doing this has attracted a good number of followers, enough to populate this city)

(do you believe in his prophecies)

(of course not. i know whence the information comes. but i can hardly speak my mind. he has been clear on that.)

_They talk all night, Robert's hand aching from the effort of taking notes, not that he thinks he will ever be able to forget any word that comes through the void. He is now sure that she is real, no hallucination of his, and that his theories and work are real and true and it seems like a dream. They send their parting words before one or both pass out from sleep, though Robert does not know if he will be able to drift off despite his fatigue. He is already making plans to build the machine of which she speaks, regardless of cost or effort, so that he can see her and speak to her and—_

_He is too tired, he thinks, and closes his eyes._


	7. Chapter 7

August 7, 1893

Private notes of Rosalind Lutece

I must admit that I had not given much thought to the amenities I would be sacrificing in my escape from Columbia; while its attitudes were primitive, its comforts were not, and there are many things about my previous situation that I find myself missing, voxophones among them. To be sure, a working model can be built given time, but I would hate to leave these first conscious days unrecorded for that reason, and so I gird my loins and soldier on with pen and paper.

I will set this down, so that I can perhaps come to believe it with time: I have traversed the dimensions, and now share a small frame house with this universe's counterpart of me, a man by the name of Robert. That he is my counterpart is incontrovertible; aside from the shock of recognition that I feel several times a day with his mannerisms and expressions, there is a phenomenon so strange as to have gone utterly unrecorded in any of the literature aside from the most speculative.

As I have become more accustomed to this universe – as I have regained consciousness, and come into myself, and recalled where I am and why I am here – the universe seems to have responded to this with, and I hate to describe things this way, but confusion. It was first discovered when my brother (he has asked me to call him that, though more on the topic later) tripped on the edge of the stove, thus raising a mark on my calf rather than his. Man of science that he is, he plunged his hand into the steam of the teakettle from there, searing my flesh with its heat.

In the intervening week, we have performed a number of experiments. The effect at present seems to be primarily physical. I do not know what an outside observer would say about the multitude of cuts and bruises that we have inflicted on ourselves in the service of learning more about this phenomenon, but in the absence of any other forces pain inflicted seems to have an equal chance of appearing on the original flesh or its counterpart. There is no magnification or lessening of the injury. And lest posterity think that we are fixated on the less pleasant aspects of our mortal existence, the comfort of a cool glass of water or repose at the end of the day does also transfer. Mercifully enough, motions do not cross whatever divide exists between us; it would be quite a thing to be a puppet able to be moved by the twitch of another's finger.

There is a weak, but present effect regarding emotional states and thoughts that appears limited to the physiological effects of that state. For example, if I frighten myself with a spider at some remove from Robert, he will experience the accelerated heart rate and sense of unease, but will not be able to identify why. One force, however, has a clear effect on causality in all situations. We discovered this by another happy accident when the machine was powered up; the presence of an active Lutece field will, without fail, attract effect to the person that is closer to the field. This renders the other almost without physical feeling, but with a sort of invincibility born of the accrual of all harm to another. If there is any ethical peril in this situation, I can see that this is where it might reside.

We are working on an expansion of the basic Lutece device that he was able to create, as well as an additional generator to provide the increased power that it will require. Robert has a small amount set by, and he was able to travel to a nearby town to exchange the silver ingots I had brought for cash, but we will need to find a patron or patrons in order to continue this work. There is a Comstock in this town, a widow whose late husband owned quite a bit of land and the local stores; I am hoping that we will not have to approach her as I fear the irony of doing so would quite overwhelm me. There are other businessmen in town, including a Frenchman by the name of Chardonneret who seems to be a man of some means. I will follow my brother's lead in this, as clearly my efforts in the past have led nowhere but my own ruin.

Robert has asked me to refer to him as brother, and he refers to me as his sister. He says that this is for the benefit of the neighbors, who would by no means understand our true relationship. He has also asked me to behave in a more…feminine manner…in public. I have acquiesced to the first in small ways, but I will not keep house for him as he has asked me to do to keep up appearances. Furthermore, I have begun to doubt that his affections for me are of a brotherly nature. On a number of occasions after we have been working together for a long stretch, he has gone to sequester himself for some time, during which the universe in its infinite wisdom decided to bestow the results of his efforts on my person rather than his. I cannot imagine what he must have been thinking as his efforts did not produce the desired effect, and I believe that the last time he realized what was happening and, without making any direct reference, apologized and I have not been so troubled since.

There may be some value to science of additional experiments, however; I will think on the matter.


	8. Chapter 8

_The knock resounds through the lab. Robert looks up from his notebook, confused for a moment, as his guests are few and far between. "Delivery for Mr. Robert Lutece!"_

_The memory presents itself - he had arranged for a coal delivery, as the generator powering their discussions has consumed his entire supply for the rest of the year. He gives himself a check in the glass of one of the bookshelves before walking outside to greet the man - he has not bothered to bathe of late, and if he wasn't trying to cultivate a mad scientist appearance, he has done an excellent job of obtaining one nonetheless._

_The voice had actually been one of the old men from the town who occupied a rocking chair outside the general store when the weather was fine, and a seat inside when it was not. "New delivery man didn't know where this place was, so I came out with him."_

_The delivery man gets the horses moving, backs the wagon towards the coal shelter that Robert indicates, climbs over and starts shoveling. While the coal is raining down, he goes in the house to fetch the money._

_The old man is looking at the books on his shelf. "What on earth do you need all of that coal for, anyway? It's summer, and I know you get your meals from the Millers."_

_"__Oh. Just my, ah, experiments."_

_"__They require a lot of electricity, eh?"_

_"__Yes. Yes, they do."_

_"__Well, I'm sure us old country folk wouldn't understand anyway." _

_"__No, I'm quite sure you wouldn't." Robert responds._

_The old man raises an eyebrow, startled, then laughs. "Well, at least you're honest, young man." A call is heard from outside. "Sounds like he wants to get on his way. I'm going to grab a ride back into town."_

_Robert hands the delivery driver an envelope with the payment, and the driver helps the old man into the seat next to him. "Well, good luck with your experiments, anyway. Don't get electrocuted!"_

_The driver clucks his tongue and the horses start moving. Robert waves them away, fills a coal scuttle, and takes it inside. _

_He sets the coal down next to the generator and goes out to the pump to wash his hands. When he comes back inside, wiping his hands on his pants, he gets a snack from the kitchen safe, and goes to do his daily maintenance on the machine._

_As he goes through the checklist, he thinks: hard to believe, the degree to which his entire life has come to revolve around the device and its emanations. He was unprepared for the intensity, the ferocity of his fascination, and it is consuming him._

_In the hours that they cannot speak, he is writing his experiences up with the ultimate goal of publication; if this does not propel him out of this backwater, nothing will._

_Snack finished and machine maintained, he opens his notebook and prepares for today's communication period._

_[Rosalind are you there]_

_Silence. He sends again._

_[Rosalind are you there]_

_She has never failed to make one of their appointments. The worry spikes hard into the center of his chest._

_[Rosalind are you there]_

_No response. He takes a deep breath, decides to wait one minute before he sends again. He extracts his watch and focuses on his breathing and the delicate motion of the second hand._

_He has always prided himself on his patience and meticulousness, but he may have to re-assess that in light of his desire to pace around the room._

_The tiny sliver of metal ticks past the appointed time, and he sends again._

_[Rosalind are you there]_

_[I am here]_

_[are you all right]_

_[no]_

_[has someone hurt you]_

_[no—]_

_[tell me. please.]_

_[Comstock has killed one of the natives at the exhibition, and punched Mr. Potter when he came to find out what happened. We have left Chicago at full speed and I do not know what he plans to do next.]_


	9. Chapter 9

They had settled into something of a domestic rhythm, working in the morning, reading in the shade when the heat of midday came, then doing the heavier, hotter work at night after the sun had set. Rosalind insisted that she had recovered and was in perfect health, but she was still pale, and struggled to stay awake at times.

This afternoon was one such occasion. They had taken their tea out under the old oak behind the house. There was a cool breeze, more so than recent days, and Rosalind had hardly taken one sip of her tea before Robert was distracted from his reading by gentle snores, and his counterpart's head drooping over her book.

He went to the house and fetched a pillow, propping her head up so that she would be comfortable. His hand brushed her skin, and he silently gave thanks that he was now able to touch her. It had taken until she was conscious and remembered who she was before he was able to set aside the heavy gloves, which made him feel like he was treating her like a specimen, an experiment.

He sat back in the chair and regarded her, the hum of the cicadas and the rich smell of the high summer grass filling his senses, the text forgotten on his lap.

He wondered, as he had wondered in every quiet moment since she arrived, at how easy it had been to bring her out of her dimension and settle her into his life. It wasn't really any different from meeting a long-lost family member, or making a close friend, he told himself. Of course, new friendships are generally not marked by prolonged nosebleeds, but in the end they had made the connection between Robert's habit of humming when he was thinking and Rosalind's recovery, and continued to play music or sing whenever she was struggling with the dimensional sickness.

They had treated each other with the formality of strangers in the beginning, but at least for him – and he thought for her too – it soon became clear that the shock of recognition that he had felt when he first saw her through the tear was not without merit. In fact, one of the first things they had done, when Rosalind was not yet up to heavier work, was to write down and compare the timelines of their lives, to see where the variances lay. She had not been ready to talk, he thought, about the events leading up to her flight here, but he would wait. They had time.

He realized that the brief touch had brought up other feelings – more masculine feelings – but he took a deep breath and let himself settle down. He was not sure it was possible to have been more humiliated than when she informed him of what he had been sharing with her, but she did not seem angry or even embarrassed, just—

Practical. She just seemed practical about it. He wondered if she approached all of her romantic dealings in that way, or if she was just trying to save her dignity in front of a man she hardly knew. He hadn't asked – shying away from the topic after their encounter – but she had made no other comments, or indicated that the subject interested her. Perhaps she was devoted to her work in a way that did not allow for romantic attachments.

Or perhaps she sees me as her brother, and has no interest in me, in the same way a real brother and sister would, he thought. He had been forced to admit to himself weeks ago that contemplating the possibility of an encounter with her gave him a frisson of forbidden pleasure.

But down that road no good thing lay, he told himself sternly, and returned to his tea and the book he had brought out.


	10. Chapter 10

(i won't do it. i won't.)

(you won't do what)

(he needs a child. an heir of his body. he thinks it prophecy. i call it madness)

(a child?)

(his wife has not borne him a child)

(what)

(he knows there are other worlds)

(he wants you to…)

(he wants one of the other girls)

(he has asked this of you?)

(madness)

(you aren't going to…)

(no. but how to tell him no?)

_Robert stays his hand before he sends the next words. It feels as if his whole being is aimed towards this one desire._

(come here)

(what?)

(come here. if you can open a tear to steal a child, you can open a tear to save yourself)

_A pause_. (I will think on it. I must go. I hear him coming.)


End file.
